Old Beginnings and New Ends
by kalinnnnn
Summary: Malcolm has made a mess out of his life; he's secluded and withdrawn and won't talk to anybody. But can one phone call change that? A series of short stories, unrelated to each other.
1. Chapter 1

I'm not really one for angst, but I just had to try and write something when I read usedusername's fanfiction "Collection". So here it is; I hope you enjoy.

Oh, and I should probably mention that English is not my native language, so there might be mistakes. If you find one, please correct me.

* * *

The phone rang.

Malcolm didn't feel much like getting up, so he didn't do anything about it. Besides, it didn't seem all that important to him right now. In the end it would go to voice mail anyway, and he didn't want to talk to anyone.

_Beep_.

_Hi, this is Dewey. What's up, Malcolm? Just calling to say hi. Please call me back when you hear this. _

A short, trivial message, lacking any personality. Something anyone could've said. Even hearing his younger brother's name, who he hadn't talked to for six months, didn't cause any excitement. Malcolm tried remembering what they'd said to each other the last time they met; as far as he could recall, the conversation had gone something along the lines of the message he just received—short, mundane, words that lacked actual meaning. They hadn't talked seriously after... well, after _that _had happened. They didn't have anything to say to each other. That struck Malcolm as a bit sad, but he didn't dwell on that thought for long; after all, he had more important things to do.

The covers of his bed were warm and he was soon drifting away, tired from the long, eventful day he had had. The campaign was running better than he could've expected, but that just meant it was getting more and more difficult for him; he had tons of paperwork to do, then he had to prepare for his next conference with the board of directors, he had to convince the company he really needed the loan, because he was seriously considering running for president next year; that meant more conferences, presidential debates, campaigns...

His brain really hurt from those thoughts, but not because they were too much for him to handle; oh no, on the contrary—he had it all planned, and he was pretty sure he was going to win, too. It wasn't that. It was the fact that he had to think about all of this, when there were many more things he could think about; but then again, he didn't want to face those thoughts as well. With a half-smile he remembered a small room, a person, whose name might've been Reese, or it might not have been—and what he had said: "Are you going to do that a lot?" To his perplexed "What?", he had answered, "The brain thing. You keep doing that brain thing."; and then, a few years later, he had asked that person, "How do you manage to stay so calm all the time?" And with a goofy smile he had said, "I just turn my brain off."

That was a long time ago, when he still thought that all there was to life was just drinking, girlfriends, and more drinking. Come to think of it, he hadn't been more complicated or profound than Reese; he could just add a few numbers faster than him. After all these years he had grown up; or rather, forgot what it was like to be young.

That person was long gone from his life, though; so had his younger brothers, Dewey and Jamie, and so had his mother and... well, the other guy. The one with the funny hair and whining voice and the thing he did when he was happy or angry. And the way he furrowed his eyebrows or narrowed his eyes when he was thinking hard, or his smi—

But he really needed that loan, so he hoped he could convince the board of directors he _was_ going to win the elections, because he already had a plan, and he hoped they were going to find it as reasonable as he did, sure it was a bit risky, but what is life without risk, and anyway he is sure that he can win this thing, and...

He'd just done what he usually did when he found himself sinking back into memories of the past. He drowned them in a downpour of other thoughts and concerns about the present. That usually worked most of the time, but today he was not the engineer of his train of thought. Soon he forgot all about his problems at work and his mind drifted away once more into the past, despite his attempts to stop this from happening.

Another conversation, another room, another person. Probably another life, too.

It was just after _that_. This time it was the kitchen. But this was not the kitchen of his childhood, this was a sad, gloomy room, covered with dust. Most of the furniture was gone: the big wooden table which had survived so much, given that he and his brothers had lived in the same house with it; the chairs, the bookshelf and the cupboards. His parents didn't need that any more because none of the kids lived in their house now. They'd usually eat in their room, using a tray that Reese had given them for their mother's 60th birthday—'for when you're old _and_ senile' he had said (and it had turned out to be a very useful gift).

It was at that moment that his younger brother Dewey entered the room, carrying that same tray with a pile of dirty plates on top of it. He was still wearing his black suit from the fu—the thing they'd went to.

"Is mom alright?" Malcolm asked, not so much out of concern, but because he couldn't stand the awkward silence.

"Yeah," Dewey said after a short pause. He went to the sink, dropped the dishes in there and started washing them. For a while the clatter of cutlery and bowls was the only sound in the kitchen.

Malcolm stood there with his back to his brother, looking absent-mindedly through the window out into the yard. The sky was covered with grey clouds and although it was only half past six, it was already getting dark.

He felt guilty. He didn't know how people could just go on with their lives after something like that, and part of him still couldn't fully comprehend what had happened. He thought: isn't that ironic? I'm still wondering what's for dinner.

This is the hardest part of it all, he thought. It's not going to the fu—the thing, it's not seeing _him _in a wooden casket, it's having to go home again after that and go on with your life. Part of him still insisted he should be doing something more meaningful than just stare out of the window and slowly gnaw on a hastily fixed sandwich. But another part, especially the part below the neck, still wanted to know what was for dinner.

Then Dewey said something, interrupting his internal dialogue.

"What?"

Dewey coughed and cleared his throat, and Malcolm knew—this was one of those things that you only pluck up the courage to say once. It was probably for the best that he hadn't heard it.

But Dewey insisted—after opening and closing his mouth several times, he said at last, "I just said he was wrong." Then he smiled nervously.

"Who was wrong?" asked Malcolm, although he already knew the answer to that question—his perfect memory hadn't failed him even then.

"Dad, when he said..." Dewey's voice faltered a little. "He always used to say that mom was going to go first. You know, because she was always so stressed out."

Malcolm frowned and remained silent. He didn't actually want to talk about it and he hoped Dewey would understand the subtle hint.

However, either because he was oblivious of his brother's mood or was lead by a desire to twist the knife in the wound, to lay it all out, to talk about it—Dewey continued: "You know, he often used to talk about the time when he wouldn't be here any more. I didn't take it seriously back then... Who would have? I mean, I was just a boy. We all were. And here we are now—"

"Dewey," said Malcolm, and it sounded a lot like a warning, with a strict tone, not unlike a teacher scolding a student. "I don't want to talk about it."

For a moment Dewey looked like he had given up, defeated by the authoritative voice of his brother; he lowered his face and looked at the spoon and the sponge he was holding in his hands, but then he raised his head again and looked defiantly straight into Malcolm's eyes. Malcolm found his gaze too intense to bear, so he looked away from him. It hurt to look into those eyes.

"Why?" Dewey demanded.

"I just don't."

He knew this wasn't enough, but he also knew he didn't want to explain it to him.

"Wouldn't it help? It would help me."

"But not me, okay? So please shut up."

Something snapped inside of Dewey. "I will not shut up! I'm not a little boy any more so that you can order me around! Don't you see? We'll only be able to get through this if we talk to each other!"

Perhaps what had angered him hadn't been so much Malcolm's reluctance to talk as his indifference. It was the thing that Dewey hated most about his brother.

"I don't want to talk," Malcolm repeated

"Why are you always so cold and distant? So... so logical?" he spat the last word out as if it had been the worst insult he could think of.

Malcolm still felt shocked when he remembered his younger brother's words. They had hurt so much, and they still hurt, but he had already started it and he didn't know how to take it back. So there had been a row. A terrible row, where things were said that neither of them really meant, or so Malcolm hoped—but either way, it had hurt too much. And it had put an impenetrable barrier between him and his brothers, because as soon as they had learned what had happened, they immediately took Dewey's side. He knew it was because they felt threatened by him; his intelligence had always intimidated and antagonized them, just as it had everybody else in his life. And he wasn't going to back off; he didn't owe anyone an apology, and he knew that.

All this time he was seething with righteous anger, though, there was a little voice in his head that said: _They don't deserve this. They don't deserve a brother who acts like a total jackass. They love you and care about you, so you shouldn't repay them with this. Take it back. _

But he didn't know how to. All his life he had never told an apology and actually meant it; it had always been because he could gain something from it. It's not like he didn't know what it felt like to be sorry; oh, he knew that, all right. But it was putting those thoughts and emotions into words that made him uneasy—it was as if he was stripping a part of himself and putting it on display where everybody could see it and judge him by it. He didn't like that helpless feeling, while he waited for his apology to be accepted or rejected. He hated it when something about his inner peace depended on somebody else; and so the smart, _logical _thing was to block out the part of him that cared.

Then again, he knew this couldn't be a permanent solution. He knew this feeling would haunt him for the rest of his days, and he might as well be done with it now. But there was a certain almost childlike stubbornness and thick-headedness that stopped him from doing that. It was a form of protest against the inevitable conclusion, a futile attempt to postpone what had to be done sooner or later. Perhaps it made it even more futile that he realised there was nothing he could do about it; he had been born with a conscience and the sooner he accepted that, the better. However, he didn't like anything about his life to be out of his control—and so maybe this was even a form of self-punishment, a sort of an attempt to kill his own conscience. But he knew that wouldn't work, too.

Suddenly despair hit him. He was never going to win that struggle against himself, and perhaps he shouldn't. Perhaps he should struggle against that part of him that made him fight with himself, the world and everybody else in the first place.

Wait, what's he talking about? Fight with what? He shouldn't apologize. He never had to, there's no reason to start now. Apologizing is for weak people. It's for the sissies who can't take what life throws at them.

But Dewey's voice had been so pleading... He can't do that to them. He loves them. This is what keeps him going, although he'd never admit that out loud. Perhaps it's apologizing... no, forgiveness that keeps everybody going. He owes it to them to at least try.

He knew that he wouldn't be able to think about campaigns and elections and loans any more. He knew that he wouldn't be able to sleep now, too. So he sat up in his bed, reaching for the phone. Then he pulled his hand back. And then he reached for the phone again. And then he pulled his hand back. Just when he was about to reach out for the third time, the phone rang, so suddenly and unexpectedly that Malcolm flinched.

_Beep._

_Hi, it's Dewey again. Hope you received my last message. Please call me back soon. _

Malcolm thought offhandedly of how trivial and stupid this message was, too. If his brother was calling to apologize, he could at least come up with something good and meaningful to say to him. How naïve of him to think that—

But then, out of the blue, he felt a tear roll down his cheek. Almost as if he didn't believe it, he touched his face with his fingers, perhaps hoping that it wasn't true. Then he held his hand in front of his face, examining the moisture on the tip of his fingers. It glistened in the faint daylight coming through the window behind him. And then, absent-mindedly, he reached for the phone, clutching it as if it was a life-belt.

And started dialing.


	2. Chapter 2

"Yesterday I found a new shortcut," Dewey said, absent-mindedly, and broke the long silence that had settled between the three of them. It was more the tone in which the words had been said than the words themselves that made them reluctantly leave their own secluded worlds and turn their attention to him.

Malcolm frowned. "What do you mean, you found a new shortcut?" He waved his hand in a gesture which encompassed the entire view before them—the trees, the houses, the cars, the bushes, the leaves and the warm rays of the autumn sun, which coloured the whole thing in warm, soft colours. "There are shortcuts all over the place. Broken fences, forgotten passageways... So what if you found a new one?"

Dewey shook his head slowly, deep in thought. "You don't get it. I found a _new _shortcut."

Their family had never been good with words.

"What's there to get, butt munch?" Reese said.

Malcolm snickered. All that reminded him of the time when they were still kids. Reese would always call his younger brothers "butt munch", "jackass", or some other names, but they didn't mind it. They never had. In fact, they'd learned to appreciate it—this was Reese's way to show his love for his brothers, a thing he didn't know how else to do.

Dewey eyed him, before continuing, "This is our neighbourhood. This is where we grew up. We knew all the shortcuts. But yesterday I found a new one. One we've never used."

Reese rolled his eyes and sighed. "I still don't get it."

Dewey picked up a dry leaf from the ground. It crumbled in his hand, leaving brown dust all over his palm.

"It means this is not our neighbourhood any more."

For a moment Reese looked like he was about to retort, but instead he remained silent. He ran a hand through his hair, his gaze suddenly drifting far away into space. After a while he replied, "No, it's not."

"Why wouldn't it be ours?" Malcolm asked, feeling a bit left out. Dewey and Reese shared a look before responding.

"Because we don't know it any more."

There was no doubt that now this wasn't the place where they'd grown up. There were new people, new kids, new cars—but it was still funny how everything seemed like a repetition of before, like a slightly twisted reflection of their childhood, with only a few details changed.

What had given them a sense of security, of familiarity, were in fact the neighbourhood's secrets. Those concealed passages and hideouts that nobody else knew about were what made it _theirs_, and no one else's. This gave them the confidence that they still belonged here.

And now that confidence was gone. Shattered by the discovery that the secrets had changed, along with everything else.

"You know, it's kinda sad." As unbelievable as Malcolm found it, it was Reese that had said that. He tensed up. He didn't like it when Reese got emotional on him.

Dewey, on the other hand, didn't seem bothered by those words at all. He even looked at his older brother fondly.

"I know," he said, almost as if he was trying to reassure him. He didn't know how else to express that he knew exactly what Reese meant.

There was a long stretch of silence, but it wasn't awkward. Through it they seemed to share what they didn't know how to say to each other. They didn't know how to say that despite the many pranks they'd pulled on each other in their childhood, they still loved each other; they didn't know how to say what immense comfort it was to have their family together again, especially in a time like this; they didn't know how to say that they'd always be there for their brothers, if they ever needed them.

The autumn wind carried all those words to them by the rustling of the leaves, the roar of distant car engines, the laughter and talking of people far away. And they knew, although they couldn't say it out loud.

After all, their family had never been good with words.


	3. Chapter 3

"Malcolm, we need to talk."

_Uh-oh_. "What about?"

"Is everything all right?"

_Ah, so she wants to talk about _feelings.

"What do you mean, mom?"

"I mean, is there something bothering you?"

_Yes, there is, as a matter of fact. But would you understand?_

"No."

"Are you sure?"

_No! No, I'm not sure!_

"Yes, mom. I'm okay. You don't have to worry."

"Oh. Only lately you haven't been talking much. You're always so silent, it's like you're keeping something to yourself. Is there something you want to tell me?"

_What is there to say?_

"No, mom, it's nothing. I've just been feeling a little tired these days. You know how it is, school and everything."

"Are you absolutely sure you have nothing to tell me?"

_Stop, please, stop!_

"Yeah, mom."

"And there's nothing wrong?"

_Yes, there is! Tell her! Tell her! Why can't you tell her?_

"No."

"But you know you can always come to me if there's something."

_You have no idea how much it hurts not to be able to tell you, and I don't even know why. But then again, how can I?_

"Yes, mom. I'm okay. Don't worry."


	4. Chapter 4

Dawn.

The first rays of red light pierce the horizon and reflect off of the distant mountains, colouring them in a mixture of red and orange shades. The trees nearby rustle with the wind.

It is such a majestic sight that Malcolm holds his breath.

_If I were an artist, I'd paint that. _

He looks at the mountains and he sees such a beautiful palette of colours that, for a moment, he wishes he could actually paint. Then he'd be able to capture this view and preserve it for himself forever.

But he knows he can't. He knows he'll never be able to.

Just as he knew he'd never be able to play the guitar. But he tried nevertheless—he wouldn't let go of the idea that he could create something beautiful, something harmonious, something artistic. It was a nice thought, anyway—he'd have what he'd always been missing and what his brothers: Dewey, and even Reese to some extent, had.

He wonders briefly what it would be like to actually take a brush, soak it in water, and then drench it with paint and just let it flow on the canvas; let it dance and jerk, and make abrupt turns and obey every flick of his hand; and through it, to create. To paint exactly what he had seen in his mind, to capture every detail and every colour. It would be something perfect—the perfect feeling, and the perfect creation.

Just like that sunrise.


	5. Chapter 5

_Beep-beep. Beep-beep._

With every high-pitched signal of the phone, the nervous knot in Malcolm's stomach tightened.

_Beep-beep. Beep-beep._

Very soon he was going to hear his brother's voice for the first time in six months—that was a pretty long time. He hadn't thought about what he was going to say; perhaps he should hang up and call again when he had—

But he knew that if he hung up now, he'd never be able to pluck up the courage to call again. So he clutched the phone and pressed it tightly to his ear, as if afraid that if he didn't hold on to it strong enough he'd let it go. His hand was cold and sweaty and he wondered briefly why he was so nervous; after all, he was just calling his brother to say hi.

So what was Dewey going to say? Was he going to be relieved, or happy to hear from Malcolm after such a long time, or angry at him? Why isn't he picking up, anyway? Perhaps he's already gone to bed? Maybe he should really hang up and call at a better time—

_Clack_.

"Hello?"

"Dewey?" It was more of a croak than anything else. It didn't help much that his mouth had suddenly gone dry.

There was a sharp intake of breath at the other side of the line.

"Malcolm?" His brother's voice didn't sound any better and the way he said his name reminded Malcolm of the ten-year-old Dewey again, with his squeaky voice and tendency to walk around in his pyjamas.

"So, uh, hi," was Malcolm's response. He resented himself for being so trivial, remembering how only three minutes ago he had been annoyed with his brother for the same reason.

"Hi," Dewey said, just as tentatively as Malcolm. "I was just wondering if you'd heard my message."

"Yeah, no, I got it."

Suddenly he wished he could stop talking right now. This wasn't right at all. This wasn't what they were supposed to say to each other; he'd better stop talking before he made matters worse. It was wrong, all wrong—he should hang up and spare them both the remorse and humiliation.

"Malcolm?" Dewey asked again, evidently worried by the long silence on the other end.

And that's when he knew—he couldn't hang up. No matter what they said to each other, he couldn't break that fragile connection between them. It was so good to hear his brother's voice again after such a long, long silence. He didn't care any more if Dewey ended up hating him for that. For the first time in his life, he actually wanted to talk to somebody.

So he clutched the phone even harder, afraid to let go. Afraid of what would happen if he let go at that moment, leaving so many unspoken things between them, plunging them back into that dreadful silence. That dreadful, cold silence.

"Malcolm, are you still there?"

"Uh... yeah."

"So... did you want to talk?"

Malcolm closed his eyes for a moment, the words slowly sinking in. He unravelled their true sense, destroyed the illusions around their meaning that he alone had created, and saw them for what they really were. 'To talk'. To communicate. To strip himself bare and put himself on display for Dewey to see. To let him in on his biggest secrets.

And the biggest secret of them all—that he couldn't do it.

He couldn't show Dewey what he really was; the thought of it was too much to bear.

But then he remembered the silence.

Anything is better than the silence.

"Yeah, as a matter of fact... I wanted to talk."

There was a pause. Malcolm was unsure of its meaning, but he felt as if Dewey was encouraging him to go on. He sighed. _Well, here goes..._

"I wanted to talk... about the... about the fight."

Dewey still said nothing. Malcolm wasn't sure if he hated him for bringing that up, or if he was relieved. God, this was so hard. Why was it so hard?

_I'm sorry for what I said. I shouldn't have yelled at you. I didn't mean any of it._

It was so easy to say those words. Then why couldn't he? Why was his mouth dry, his palms clammy-cold, why was he pressing the phone so hard against his ear? Maybe he was waiting for encouragement? Maybe he wanted help?

"Yeah, about that..." Dewey started. Malcolm wanted to cut him off, to stop the apology he knew was coming—it was _him _that should be making amends, not Dewey. And it felt wrong that Dewey was going to say those two simple words first.

Come on, while he's still hesitating! Say it! Come on!

But those words are so... everyday. Tasteless. Everybody said them. He should make up something else. He should say something smart, witty, something to show he really cared about Dewey's feelings, and that he wasn't cold. And distant.

Damn his giant brain! Why can't it be of any help precisely when he needs it the most?

You should just say 'sorry'. You love Dewey, and he loves you. That should be enough.

Then why does it feel so hollow? Because it's just cliché, that's why. And besides, you couldn't fix a thing like that with a simple apology. You should make up something good, something that counts.

But what? He was already starting to panic. What was good enough? Why was his brain dead?

He heard Dewey inhale tentatively and he knew he was running out of time. This was it. He had nothing else.

Malcolm took a deep breath and prepared to say those two simple words that he resented so much and that at the same time meant the world to him; because he knew they'd mean the world to Dewey, and despite their banality, they'd be the most sincere thing he'd ever said to him. Then he heard Dewey at the other end of the line, and even before he opened his mouth, he knew that he and his brother would say it at the same time—that simple acknowledgement of the fact that they'd both been wrong, and that they both wanted the same thing: to be forgiven.

"I'm sorry."


	6. Chapter 6

It started with something as simple as running.

They ran. Not from something. Not to somewhere. They just ran, so absorbed by the game that they forgot everything else. They just ran for the joy of it, for the freedom it gave them.

Then Dewey caught up with Malcolm and prodded him with a finger. It was now Malcolm's turn to chase him.

They'd played that simple game since they'd been able to walk. They didn't know why, they didn't even know who had started it; it was just a thing they did.

It was just a thing they did.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

And now, years later, Malcolm was staring out through the window. The rain was pouring outside, making the glass a pattern of flowing streams and rivers.

It was something as simple as running.

Why did he enjoy doing it so much? Perhaps it was the feeling of freedom? Of soaring over the ground, only touching it for a moment? Of speed? Of might?

And yet it was raining today. He couldn't run; not now.

He'd get wet.

But even now he was running. Not physically; physically he was confined in a small room, about fifteen feet wide and twenty long.

Nevertheless, he was running. He ran from the feelings that scared him, from the irrational desires of a part of him that wasn't quite him and yet at the same time he felt more himself when he let the feelings flow, than when he submitted to his more logical self. Sometimes it felt more real when something tugged at his heartstrings than when it provoked his brain. But it scared him, too.

And so he ran from it. It was as simple as that.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

They ran.

It was a different kind of running. He was not scared. He didn't want to escape from something. In fact, he wanted to reach something,

He wanted to reach Dewey.

His brother was just ahead of him. He was running, too. But he wasn't going too fast; it was like he didn't want to be caught, and at the same time, he did. This was part of the unwritten rules of the game—rules that hadn't been established by anyone and yet they obeyed them; and one of those rules was that no one could be chased for a long time. They had to switch.

He didn't know why. Perhaps they were scared? Scared of what could happen if they couldn't stop running; if they went on like this forever, one chasing the other, the other being always just out of reach.

It was kind of silly, Malcolm knew. No one could run forever. No one could be chased forever.

Then why did it feel like it was happening?

He was running, again. From the feelings, from himself.

And that pretty much felt like a perpetual game of running, with the players just going on and on and never catching up with each other.

He knew he wanted to escape from everybody. They scared him. And yet he wanted to be caught by them, but he ran just fast enough so that they couldn't. So that it'd make them try again and again, and they'd never stop, but they'd never reach him, too. He didn't know if they'd eventually get tired of chasing after him. All he knew was that he wanted to be alone.

No, he didn't. What was he saying? That was the most dreadful thing in the world. He didn't want that. He'd never wish for it, never.

He wanted to prolong the game as much as he could, he didn't want to switch just yet.

And yet he was tired. He was tired of the long years of running. He wanted it to end right now, and he wanted for it never to start again. Perhaps he should just give up and let the world catch up with him.

He wasn't scared of anyone any more. Now he just wanted to hear those words again; the words he and his brother had said so many times when they were children, and that reversed the cycle, that switched the roles:

"Ha! You're it!"

He shouldn't go on like this any more.

That's the point of the whole game—you shouldn't be frightened. You shouldn't feel anything but joy and freedom. You shouldn't be scared of being caught—that was what must happen, eventually. Perhaps that was what they'd prepared each other for—leaving the fear behind and not being scared if it eventually caught up with them.

And to stop, in the end. To rest. To enjoy the running, not do it out of fear.

All he wanted was to hear those words again.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

A small, dirty-blonde boy is chasing his older brother down the road. That's what the neighbours see. That's what really matters.

The boy reaches out with his hand, and is just about to touch the other child's shoulders when the other one suddenly changes directions, this time heading for the sidewalk. But the blonde one is smarter than that and he has already anticipated his brother's move.

The small, white palm touches the dark-haired one's shoulder.

"Ha! You're it, you're it!"

His laughter rings all over the block.

The older one stops, panting heavily. The blonde one follows suit, putting his hand on his brother's shoulders.

"What's wrong, Malcolm?"

"I'm... a bit... tired," he says. "Let's... stop."

"Okay," the young one agrees. "For now."

They both sit down on the pavement.

Now they're not running. They're resting.

It's just as simple as that.


	7. Chapter 7

The idea for this chapter came to me after watching the video Small Pleasures (Μικρές χαρές) on youtube. I hope you like it.

I also might expand this into a separate, multi-chapter fanfic. I'm still not sure, though.

* * *

The bench felt cold.

But Malcolm could feel the warmth spreading from Reese's body next to him, and the warmth of the last rays of the sun on his face—they were watching the sunset.

He knew the situation was awkward for his brother; he could feel Reese shifting nervously next to him. He understood that this kind of setting would be awkward for anyone, let alone for somebody from his family, since they tended to neglect 'emotional' education. Feelings were rarely discussed amongst them and were viewed more or less as a weakness.

Malcolm had always welcomed this kind of attitude; it made it easier to deal with life and things in general when he could hide from everybody—including himself—what he actually felt.

But today was an exception.

Today was an exception in many respects. It was the first time in many years that he and Reese went out together alone; it was the first time he just felt like sitting on a bench and enjoying the fresh wind on his face; and it was the first time he went out in this... well, condition. The first time after that accident.

"So, um... this is nice," he heard his brother say.

"Yeah," he agreed after a while. He was reluctant to do so, since he himself wasn't sure if it was, but he didn't want to begrudge Reese anything that would make him at least a little more comfortable. He really appreciated what his brother was doing for him, and he wanted him to know it.

"It's really beautiful," Reese said. "The sunset."

Then he suddenly tensed up. Malcolm knew what his brother had just thought, and had the situation been different, he would've rolled his eyes; but that was the old him. The new him remained silent and unmoving, expecting the words he knew were going to follow.

"I'm sorry, I... didn't mean it like that. I'm really sorry."

Malcolm took a sharp breath. "It's okay, really. Don't worry."

He actually liked the new careful and tentative Reese. It was all very strange, but he enjoyed the opportunity this situation presented; in fact, it had removed many of the constraints they previously had in showing their affection for one another. It was kind of wrong of him, he knew, but he hated it that something like that had to happen in order for them to be more open with each other. Now they could say things that would've otherwise remained unspoken for God knows how long—possibly forever. Malcolm almost shuddered at that thought.

He searched for Reese's hand with his own and grabbed it when he found it. He squeezed it reassuringly, hoping this would take the edge off of his brother's concern just a little bit.

Reese was unresponsive for quite a while, but finally his finger moved and he squeezed back. He's very careful with me now, Malcolm thought. As if I'm made of glass. The previous Reese would've just hit him or punched him in the shoulder.

He was a bit annoyed with that, but he knew that if he pointed it out, it would only make Reese confused and embarrassed; he probably didn't realise exactly how tentative he was being, and even if he did, he probably wouldn't like it to be pointed out. It would just make it all the more awkward.

It was as if not only... part of him was damaged. It was as if his whole body was more fragile now. And not only the body: he knew how his mother, his father and even his brothers looked at him, even though he couldn't see them. As if they were afraid of him. As if they were afraid _for_ him, afraid he'd do something really stupid now that he wasn't... well, now that he wasn't exactly healthy. He knew how they removed all sharp objects out of his reach and they thought he wouldn't notice; if he needed to shave or cut his stake with his knife, there was always a gentle, but firm hand on his own, slowly guiding him. They told him they were afraid he'd cut himself. But he knew that this wasn't the real reason, at least not exactly. They _were _afraid he'd cut himself, but not out of negligence.

And Malcolm didn't know how to tell them that he'd never do that, not even now. He knew that if he said that, they'd just laugh nervously: how could he be so stupid, they'd never think he was capable of doing something like that. That's really not why they're doing it. But deep down, a lingering feeling of awkwardness, of fear, would remain and only get stronger. Because, after all, they'd be offended that he considered them capable of even thinking something like that could happen. And even though it was the truth, it would still hurt.

His life had changed a great deal after the accident. Sure, it had its bad sides, but it was only now that he realised it wasn't all that bad.

It was the little things that made him see the world differently. His parents had insisted that they all move in with them for a while; just until they were back to normal again. And now he saw the house he had grown up in with new eyes. Things that would piss the young Malcolm off to no end, were now oddly calming and refreshing. Reese's squeaking nose, for example: after the first night they spent back in their old room, Malcolm found out that his older brother still made that strange noise with his left nostril. And whereas he would've been irritated ten years ago, now it was just... nothing much. It was even comforting to hear that noise from his childhood, a tiny fraction of the past that had remained unchanged. And since so many things had changed recently, he was desperately seeking to salvage even the smallest pieces of his old life.

In a strange way, this filled him with hope—hope that there was still something worth living for.

New barriers had been created, but many old ones had been lifted; it was now that Malcolm finally understood what it meant to be open to somebody, to tell him everything. His brothers had become the closest people to him in his entire world. He confided in them, and they confided in him. Now he finally knew what it felt like to belong somewhere.

Of course it was awkward and painful for him and his family, and there was nothing they could do to change that. They were all helpless and that was the worst of it, and he didn't know if they were going to get through it. He really didn't. But he knew that he'd try his best to make it work, and that his family would do the same. The ease with which he came to that revelation astonished him; on the other hand, it was also relieving to face the truth.

It felt like a storm had passed through his life, destroying the old Malcolm; but now he had started building himself anew, and it was all still easy, and unknown, and fresh.

He was still free.

Snapping out of those thoughts, Malcolm realised he was still holding Reese's hand. They must be quite an interesting spectacle, he thought, and he knew people were staring at them oddly, but he didn't care. He also knew that Reese must've noticed the inquisitive, curious and mocking looks the passers-by gave the both of them, but he didn't feel him pulling his hand away either.

"It _is _a beautiful sunset," Malcolm said. He sensed Reese turning his head to look at him, puzzled, and he smiled and said nothing.

"Yeah, I know," Reese ventured at last.

A sudden cold gust of wind made Malcolm shiver.

"Are you cold?" Reese asked.

"A little."

"Then we should go. Come on. I'll help you up."

Malcolm stood up slowly, his brother supporting him. He breathed in the fresh breeze for one last time, before turning his face to the setting sun.

He _knew_ it was beautiful, though. Even if he knew he couldn't see it.

And Reese knew that, too. So he lead Malcolm on, holding him firmly by the hand.


End file.
